Scream in Terror, Benihime
by Venarti
Summary: A darker interpretation of Urahara and Benihime's relationship. Rating due to mature themes, no pairings.


Scream in Terror, Benihime!

A/N: Keep the mind soap, brain bleach or equivalent nearby. I take no responsibility for the consequences of reading this.

Kisuke was, in shinigami terms, quite a proud man. Not on the scale of the Kuchiki, for example, but he was still more prideful than most seated officers. It took, therefore, a considerable effort of will to keep his head bowed in the face of Yoruichi's skepticism. He reminded himself that his request was exceptionally unusual – nay, unique.

The Goddess of Flash frowned down on him. 'Allow me to summarize your rather extravagant request. You want three days leave.'

'Yes, Lady Yoruichi.'

'With the express aim of learning Bankai.'

In response to his Captain's incredulity, Kisuke kept his voice as level as possible.

'Yes, Lady Yoruichi.'

'Bankai. In three days. Alone. Despite being admitted to the Fourth division six times in the last month with reishi exhaustion.' Yoruichi's skepticism had become palatable enough to flavor the reiryoku she was emitting, and Kisuke briefly wished he could take a sample of it. The reishiological variations produced by such emotion would be fascinating, especially in a Captain-class subject. Instead, he kept still and quiet. He'd made his request, now it was up to Yoruichi to grant it. She sighed in exasperation.

'Allright then. Take four days – if you survive, you'll need a day to recover.' Here she leaned forward, her tone hardening. 'And you had better survive.'

Kisuke permitted himself a small smile at the floor.

'Thank you, Lady Yoruichi.'

-:-

The entrance to the training cavern was sealed off with the highest level kido Urahara could perform – and about six iterations of it to boot. By his estimations, it would take skill on the order of the Captain of the kido Corps married to the raw power of the Captain General to break those seals in less than a day. He was totally isolated from the outside world – the makeup of the caves walls was designed to dampen reishi vibrations, both incoming and outgoing.

The lights were off, except for the one directly above Urahara. He didn't know why, it just felt better that this was done in near-darkness. He was going to shatter the traditions of thousands of years, either now or very, very soon. Thoughts, doubts, assailed his mind. Would this strange device he had created, and had now propped up in front of him, actually work? Was his power sufficient to survive the ordeal? Was Captaincy of the Twelfth Division worth enough for him to risk this?

He snorted, amused despite his very real anxiety. He had been over these questions before, and had dismissed each one in turn. He had only to impale the Tenshintai he had created and he could begin.

So resolved, he drew Benihime from her scabbard. He made to motion deliberately slow, giving Benihime plenty of time to voice a final objection. Not that he would have listened. But the blade remained silent, voicing neither objection nor endorsement. In fact, Kisuke mused, she hadn't said anything since he had begun the Tenshintai project.

Regardless of his blade's apathy, Urahara stepped forward and thrust his blade into the silvery surface of the Tenshintai, impaling it up to the hilt. At first, nothing happened. Then the Tenshintai, and Benihime along with it, exploded in a flash of red light. Within seconds, the light vanished. In its place, it left... nothing. Kisuke frowned, concerned. Perhaps the device had malfunctioned. Then he noticed a vibrant presence off to his right.

There stood a young girl. Physically no more than eleven or twelve, she was thin and frail-looking, on the verge of appearing malnourished. She wore a black kusode and hakama – a standard shihakusho without footwear or an undershirt. The kusode, however, was damaged – both arms had been torn off at the shoulders. This made her arms starkly visible against the sides of her clothes; they were thin, little more than bone and modest muscle, wrapped in a package of skin the color of fresh blood. Her face was covered by lank, matted and filthy hair, whose dark red color was hidden beneath layers of dirt and grease. Her stance was unsure, wary – as if she wanted to be able to flee at the slightest provocation. When she looked up, catching Urahara's gaze, her crimson eyes glittered with fear and malice. Urahara knew, both instinctively and from previous meetings, exactly who he faced. This was Benihime.

'You coward. Too scared, too weak to externalize me on your own merit, so you build a machine to do it for you? Pathetic!' Benihime's voice, in comparison to her appearance, was unrelentingly accusative.

Urahara just glared. 'I tried. I tried for four years, and you blocked me at every turn.'

'Pah! There was a burst of reishi and Benihime was suddenly holding a sword identical to the one Urahara had just lost.

'You want Bankai? You don't deserve to wield a Zanpakuto, and _you_ want _Bankai_?' Benihime didn't give Urahara a chance to respond. She just leapt forward, blade extended and aimed right at his heart.

Urahara's dodge was simultaneously perfect and not good enough. He twisted to the left, saving his heart – and took the blow in the shoulder instead. He grimaced, then lashed out with his other hand. A quick, low-level but powerful Hado was enough to knock Benihime to the floor. Scowling in distaste, he picked up the sword from where it had fallen.

'I hope this isn't going to be like the first time was met.' That meeting had almost got Urahara kicked out of the Gotei Thirteen on mental health grounds.

'You wish, you sick, sadistic perv-' A swift kick to the jaw cut Benihime off. Urahara had no reason to listen to such unjust accusations, and said so.

Benihime lead on her back, gasping for air, and Urahara finally got a good look at the inside of her arms. Once again, he felt more than a little sick. Benihime's arms were covered in scars, running up and down, left to right and diagonally, crisscrossing every which way. Some were old and seemed nearly healed. Some were fresh, still weeping blood. There were three on each arm that couldn't have been more than an hour old, and it appeared that the exertion of trying to kill him had opened several closed wounds.

'Tch. You persist in trying to hold me back. You even cut your own body to hurt me.' Urahara's grip on the sword went almost white as he clenched his fist. How dare this being try to hold herself back, and, by extension, hold him back? It was unacceptable, and he would deal with it accordingly. Then he noticed something he hadn't seen before. Benihime was crying.

Droplets of fluid rolled down her cheeks as she shifted onto her side – they were too red to call water, but too clear to call blood. This threw Urahara – he'd never seen her like this, she had always been the abusive, intractable and irritating child that had tried to stab him with his own sword. She turned two scornful eyes on him, and choked out a few words.

'Never tried to... hold back... always... to help...' With every word, a trickle of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth. 'You despised me... tried to stop me... still demanded... that's... Shikai... when we first met...'

A cough wracked Benihime's body into spasms. Urahara stood and watched, paralyzed by shock, as she hacked and spluttered into silence. She drew another breath and continued, her voice even quieter and weaker than before.

'You wanted my power... felt like... killing me... every time... drew on my power... took blood... cuts... made it easier...' Benihime's face curled up in anger. 'Now... you get... nothing... my power... is mine alone...'

Urahara was frozen in shock. Using Benihime's power drew on her _blood_? He had to swallow, hard, to prevent himself vomiting in disgust. That explained so much – the injuries she accumulated between his regular, weekly visits back when he was still getting comfortable with Shikai, the knife she'd carried in his inner world, the feeling of weakness when he'd taken it away – and her resentment at him, drawing her blood directly from- Urahara bit back that thought when he remembered when they'd first met. Benihime had been fair-skinned, like himself.

Benihime dragged herself to her feet. 'You want to wield that sword? You want Bankai. Fine. Survive.'

She raised a loose fist towards Urahara's chest. He watched it with trepidation, suddenly unable to move despite his best efforts. The sword slipped from numb fingers and he collapsed, falling to his knees. Then Benihime clenched her fist, grinning maliciously, and the pain started.

Urahara had developed an effective coping system for pain, falling into a meditative trancelike state that allowed him to move beyond the pain, and applied a healing kido at a subconscious level. Such a state would render him unable to act, but had allowed him to survive the mental and physical trauma of exceptionally dire wounds.

The instant Benihime started inflicting pain, he found himself unable to cope. He couldn't ignore, avoid or adapt to the pain. He couldn't lessen the pain he felt. He couldn't even move his jaw to ask for a reprieve. Every square centimeter of his body cried out in agony. He reflexively shut his eyes, screwed them up against the intolerable stinging, so he missed the spectacle of his blood fountaining out of his body. It gushed out of old wounds, flowed out of orifices and seeped out of pores, forming a pool around his kneeling figure.

After a minute or so – a ceaseless eternity to Urahara – the pain ebbed away, and he was able to look again. He watched as the pool of blood flowed towards Benihime, flowed up her arms and drained into her. It was the exact opposite to what happened to him – he could hear Benihime growling with pleasure, which almost made him look away in itself. It was freakish enough to look at, but the sounds as well were a whole new layer of weirdness. He only looked back when Benihime spoke again.

'Allright. My power is mine. As for you- give me my knife back. Then I'll consider giving you a chance at learning the process for gaining Bankai. When I trust you.' Her voice seemed stronger, yet less harsh.

Benihime smiled. She had imagined that the process of retrieving her power from Urahara would restore her appearance, but it had not. It looked like she was stuck with blood-red skin. Strangely enough, that thought didn't bother her quite so much now. She faded from view, savoring the distraught expression on Kisuke's face. She'd forced him to comprehend. Now, hopefully, he would begin to understand what it meant to be her wielder...


End file.
